


Might As Well

by mcicioni



Category: The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hints of polyamory (not the OTP), M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Another variation on the theme "Two men ride out of the Mexican village, and ..."
Relationships: Chris Adams/Vin
Comments: 27
Kudos: 23





	1. "Two Ride Together"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sindarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindarina/gifts).



> All my thanks to Darcyone and Sybilius for their never-ending patience.
> 
> My chapter titles are partial references to classic Western films or stories.

They don’t look back as they ride out of the village. All the corpses have been buried – friends and allies in the small cemetery just inside the village borders, enemies in a deep pit near the corn fields. Chris briefly wonders whether anything that grows over the pit will be destroyed or used. 

No point in having a last look at the four new crosses just a little apart from the others. Harry, Britt, Lee and Bernardo will live on for a while in the memories and prayers of the villagers, and then, bound to no one place and no human being, they will fade and disappear. 

_Places you are tied to: none. People with a hold on you: none. Men you step aside for: none._

It’s mid-morning, but Chris is already tired, spent, like a gun that has been fired six times. All he can do is ride in silence, refusing to think of what may lie ahead for him. His mind drifts along with the rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the hard ground, Vin on his right, the men he has killed and the men he has led to their deaths on his left. 

The road out of the village turns into a trail covered with yellow and brown leaves; soon the vegetation becomes thicker, green and yellow and brown and red, and in the distance ahead they can see the grey-brown outlines of the mountains.

They ride at a steady pace past the clearing where Calvera’s men threw their guns on the ground and each of the seven made his choice. Vin slows his horse down, turns towards Chris, draws a breath, and says in a low voice, “ _Nobody throws me my own guns back and says, Run_.” Chris frowns at him – Vin is trespassing again, he keeps trespassing, that’s the way Vin is. He closes his eyes, sees Britt’s knife stuck into the low wall, and sighs. He looks down at his reins, allows himself to think of Harry’s last moments, and says quietly, “ _I’ll be damned_.” He raises his eyes and sees Vin almost imperceptibly shaking his head, with a faint smile – not mocking, not sarcastic, there’s warmth in it.

There are three trails out of the clearing. The one they had taken, that goes into the village and out of it. Another one goes north, towards the border town where it all began. The last one goes north-east, towards the Rio Grande and New Mexico. Chris stops for a moment, points his horse towards the third trail and looks at Vin, wordlessly, face blank. Vin shrugs, half-grins, mutters “Might as well” and rides up level with Chris.

Neither of them speaks as they ride, which suits Chris fine. After an hour or two they see a wild turkey flying low, close to the ground; Vin drops his reins, reaches for his rifle, aims and fires in one fluid movement. With the fruit and tortillas the villagers gave them, they’ll eat well tonight.

Around noon, they stop in the shade of some rocks, to rest their mounts and chew on some dried meat. It’s fall, but waves of heat are still rising from the ground and wrapping around their legs. They drink sparingly from their canteens. Chris wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Two fingers tap his forearm: Vin is offering him his own damp bandana. Chris nods thanks, for the offer and the silence.

Vin stands up, face scrunching up in a fleeting grimace, and limps slightly as he moves back towards his horse.

Chris is on his feet a second later: “How’s the leg?”

“Healin. Muscles still a bit sore.” A shrug. “Nothin much.”

“Let me have a look,” Chris orders. Vin hesitates, then turns around, undoes his gunbelt, and lowers trousers and underpants just enough to uncover the bloodstained bandage on his right thigh. Chris removes it, stopping every time Vin draws in breath. The neat row of stitches shows no puffiness and relatively little bleeding; Chris makes a small sound of approval, the old women at the village knew what they were doing. For a fraction of a moment his eyes linger on the pale, strong thigh, and on the blond bush covering a short, thick cock. He blinks, steps back, goes to Vin’s saddlebags and extracts a small vial of salve and a clean bandage: “You need help with that?”

Vin shakes his head and salves and bandages his wound quickly and efficiently. “Ready.”

The wild turkey is tasty if tough; Chris isn’t all that hungry, but they need to eat. He glances at the horses, unsaddled and loosely tethered, and up at the dark patches of sky between the tree branches. He should start brewing coffee, but his limbs are heavy, unwilling to move.

Vin, always a mind-reader, gets up, goes to his saddlebags and produces a small flask: “ _Aguardiente_ ,” he smiles. “Gift from Sotero. By way of apology, probably.”

“Probably.” Chris has a small drink, pulls a cigar out of a pocket and lights it. He narrows his eyes as other campfires flash through his mind. Britt, long legs stretched out on the ground, turning a page of his book. Lee washing his string tie and hanging it on a branch. Harry practising a card trick on a corner of his blanket. All just gone, to no paradise, no hell, and nowhere else in-between. Gone, but still drifting around in his mind and guts, and they’ll stay there a long while.

“Driftin.” Chris jumps, afraid that he has spoken aloud his thoughts. Then he realises that what he heard was Vin’s voice, low, careful, letting out a couple of words at a time. “Just like we were doin, on that day. Before the farmers talked to you.”

Chris eyes him in silence. Vin takes a mouthful of _aguardiente_ and rolls it around his mouth before swallowing it.

“You’re not much of a drinker,” Chris remarks quietly, changing the subject.

“Used to be.” Vin flashes him a quick grin. When he smiles, his eyes are blue; when he’s serious, they turn to grey. “Until I decided that it was slowing me down.” A beat. “I remembered what it did to my father, as well. We and Ma learned to steer clear of him at night, when he came home.”

“We?”

“Me and my sister. She married at seventeen, her husband took her off to Iowa.” A pause. “We were from Nebraska. Sodbusters. My Pa was from Sweden.” He goes quiet, probably sorry to have given so much away, and shivers. “It’s gettin cold. Time to hit the sack.” A moment’s pause. “Want me to take first watch?”

Chris shakes his head. “No, go on and get some sleep. I’ll wake you up in four hours.”

Vin smiles, starts unrolling his blankets, stops. “Say, we’re takin turns at sleepin, right? So if we put the bedrolls together, whoever’s inside would be twice as warm.”

Chris makes a small sweeping gesture. “Go right ahead.”

Asleep, tangled up in the two sets of blankets, Vin looks younger. He has shed his armour of devil-may-care irony and is snoring lightly and peacefully. Chris sits by the fire, rifle beside him, alert though exhausted, smoking and shivering. He looks from the still shape on the other side of the fire to the shapes of the mountains in the darkness around them, and idly wonders what sort of armour people may see around him. After five hours, he builds up the fire, presses a gentle boot toe against Vin’s ribs, ignores his protests at having been given an extra hour’s sleep, and slides into the vacated bedroll. The warmth and smell of the other man’s body ease his weariness; he goes to sleep aware that he is faintly smiling to himself.


	2. Ride to Lordsburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Vin get to Lordsburg. Separately.

In the morning, while coffee is brewing, Chris inspects Vin’s leg. The bleeding has stopped, a scab is beginning to form. 

“Good,” Chris says, looking away while Vin tidies himself up.

“Yep,” Vin agrees, lips twitching as he gives Chris a brief look over his shoulder. 

They cross the Rio Grande in the afternoon. “Home,” smirks Vin.

Chris just says, “Yeah.” The pain of losing their _compadres_ will fade, the pain of knowing that hired guns always lose will stay with them. It’s a little easier right now, riding beside someone with whom hardly any words are necessary. For as long as it lasts.

Vin stops, dismounts, rummages in his saddlebags and pulls out a map. Faded, stained and torn, but it tells them that Lordsburg is less than a day’s ride to the north.

“New town, I think,” Chris says. “Ever been there?”

“No. Looks like I will be,” Vin says, easy, conversational.

That night’s dinner is two large quail they sight on a slope covered with brush, with the last of the tortillas from the village. They huddle close to the fire as the night air nips at their noses and fingers and makes its way into their jackets.

“It’ll be good to get to Lordsburg, eat something I haven’t shot,” Vin says, pulling up his collar. “And sleep under blankets instead of inside ‘em.” A pause. “Speakin of which,” he jerks his chin towards the two bedrolls and looks questioningly at Chris, “ain’t nobody around for miles, we don’t need to take turns standin guard.”

Chris nods, “It should be all right.” As Chris banks the fire, Vin makes short work of fashioning one bedroll and starts pulling his boots off. There’s a sizeable hole in the toe of one sock and a bigger one in the heel of the other.

They lie side by side, the first hesitant tendrils of warmth curling around their bodies. Chris’s taut muscles begin to loosen up. “Good night.”

“Good night.” A brief laugh in the dark, and Vin shifts a little and reaches out, one hand covering Chris’s and bringing it to his groin.

This is not unexpected. Chris has been with men before, not many but enough. In the war, and after it, driving cattle or sharing jail cells, once even with Harry, after a successful heist. Sex was a quick release, when he was younger, when he felt pleasure, when he felt desire. Before he learned that friendships only last as long as the job, a few days or a few weeks, and everyone goes his own way at the end. Part of their line of work. Part of his life. He’s tired, he has stopped wanting. His body is stirring, but that’s purely an instinctive reaction, it means nothing.

Vin’s still young, and Chris is not sure if he’s just trying his luck – as he did at the gambling table in the border town – or if he wants more than a quick moment of fun. Either way, Chris is too weary to give anything to him or anyone else. He moves Vin’s hand away, firmly but not ungently. “No.”

“No?” The voice in the darkness is casual, with a hint of amusement.

“No. I can’t.” There’s going to be no discussion, he doesn’t owe Vin any explanations, and some things – most things – are better left unsaid.

Vin laughs again. “That’s right, you can’t.” Two fingers brush, quick and featherlight, over the bulge in Chris’s trousers. Chris shoves them away and snaps, “Just take no for an answer, damn it.” He rolls over on his side, in the warmth of the shared blankets, keeping a tight rein on his frustration with Vin, with himself, with the way things are.

Vin withdraws his hand and rolls over, slowly, as if giving Chris time to change his mind. They lie back to back for a while, their breathing becoming more even. Chris settles down and closes his eyes.

He wakes suddenly, as chill daybreak air suddenly strikes his back. He lies still, without turning. The soft rustling noises behind him are easy to identify: Vin is saddling his horse and mounting up, without bothering about his tarp and blanket.

Chris gets to his feet, picks up Vin’s bedding and hands it to him: “See you.”

Vin takes the bedding and nods thanks, unsmiling in the cold, colourless morning light. “See ya.” He turns his horse towards the north and rides off, the hoofbeats still audible after he’s out of sight. 

The sky is turning pink and orange. Chris kicks the embers of the fire back to life, washes his face with a little water from his canteen and starts making coffee. Being alone is what he’s used to, what he’s good at. Not accountable to anyone, not needing anyone. He could head back to Mexico, maybe Tijuana, see if there’s any action there. Or he could stop at another border town, work for his keep. Or he could ride on to Lordsburg – if Vin is heading there, he will probably have drifted on by the time Chris arrives.

He stares at the mountains around him and rolls his shoulders. His whole body feels stiff and unmanageable. He can’t remember when he last felt so unsettled.

Lordsburg is a growing town: it even has a small, newly-built railway station, with a Southern Pacific railroad timetable. Along Main Street (lined with boardwalks, so that people don’t have to walk in the dust and mud) there are a church, a Chinese laundry, a general store, a bank, a Butterfield Stagecoach office, a café, a hotel and two saloons. Chris is sitting in the back of one of them, a half-empty drink in front of him, smoking and wondering if he’d rather move on or stay here for a while, see what work is available, legal and otherwise. He doesn’t really care either way. He’s aware, with some annoyance, that his eyes keep straying towards the batwing doors, glancing at the men going in and out.

He is about to stand up and get out when the doors are pushed open again, and Vin steps in. He scans the room, looks at Chris, saunters to the bar, gets a drink, and walks straight to Chris’s table.

“Howdy,” he says, civil, with no trace of embarrassment or resentment. He sits down and lifts his glass to his lips. Chris downs what’s left of his drink and releases the breath he didn’t quite know he was holding. 

“You drinking to something?” he asks.

Vin swallows and nods. “Yeah. I found a job. Not in a grocery store,” and he gives Chris a small grin. “Ranch hand. Small spread, the Double Four, six-seven miles outside town. Owned by two kids, brother and sister, less than forty-five years between the two of ‘em.”

“Congratulations,” Chris says drily.

Vin puts his glass down and gives Chris a long, level look. “Heard that they’re lookin for drivers at Butterfield.”

“Going to try?”

“Told you, I already got a job. And anyway,” this time the grin is a little broader, “I’m better as a shotgun guard.”

_Never rode shotgun on a hearse before_ , Chris remembers, and his body relaxes, and a little warm spot starts glowing inside him. He leans back in his chair and looks Vin over. “You going to live at this Double Four spread?”

“Yeah. There’s only me and one other hand.” A beat. “Long story. The kids may tell you if you meet them. If you stick around, that is.”

Chris stands up, weariness beginning to slide off his shoulders for reasons he does not want to look into. He pushes his hat back a little and looks at Vin. “See you tomorrow.” 

Around noon the next day, Chris walks into the saloon. Vin is sitting alone, a glass of beer in front of him; he has got rid of his stovepipe chaps and is casting curious glances at the poker game at the next table. Chris walks towards Vin, sits down opposite him, and slaps a small parcel on the table, between them. Vin looks intrigued, reaches for the parcel, opens it and laughs out loud, holding up one of two pairs of socks.

“What …?”

“Thank-you present for the tip you gave me,” Chris says quickly, and sees Britt leaning against a wall and smiling wryly, like he had in the village, the night after the first battle, when he’d thrown a big sombrero towards Chico, _New hat for you, sonny_. He blinks, Britt disappears, and he says, “I’m starting with Butterfield tomorrow. Easy job, the horses know the runs, they can almost do them by themselves.”

“Good.” Vin’s smile and voice are polite, controlled. “Where’re you stayin?”

“The hotel,” Chris says, and at Vin’s disbelieving glance adds, “They gave me an advance on my pay.”

Vin downs what’s left of his beer and stands up. “Better get back to work.” He hesitates a moment, then adds, “You got a free afternoon. Want to come and meet my new bosses?”

Chris doesn’t have anything else to do, anywhere else to be. “Might as well,” he says, pleased to see a flash of amusement in Vin’s eyes.


	3. Invitation to a Gunfighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're a hired gun, you can't afford to care. Or can you?

They are sitting on their horses on a hill that looks over the Double Four Ranch. It isn’t anything much: a smallish cabin and a bunkhouse, an outhouse and a barn between them, and a split-rail corral with four horses. In front of the house there’s a well and behind it there’s a small kitchen garden. Outside the corral, half a dozen longhorn cows are grazing on a grassy rise. Inside the corral, a young man is rubbing one of the horses with a piece of sacking and trying to avoid having his backside nipped by a frisky mare.

Chris turns towards Vin. “Why exactly are you taking me here?”

Vin shrugs. “They’re interestin people. And neither of us has anythin better to do.”

When they ride in, the young man steps out to join them. He’s eighteen or nineteen at the most, slim and wiry, with light brown skin and a mop of tight black curls. As soon as they dismount, he greets Vin and cheerfully holds out a hand to Chris. “Virgil Henderson.”

“And I’m Esther Henderson.” The girl coming out of the cabin is a couple of years older than her brother. The family resemblance is obvious: same round face, same broad mouth, same wide, inquisitive eyes. Her smooth, glowing skin is darker than Virgil’s, and her hair is a mass of black waves, loosely tied at the back. She fills her plain skirt and blouse – spattered with floury dough – quite pleasantly.

“Welcome,” she says, in a slow Mississippi drawl. Chris feels a pang in his guts as he is reminded of Lee’s long Southern vowels. “There’s cold drinkin water inside, and I could make tea.” She grins. “And you could taste my flapjacks.” 

“Meet Chris Adams,” Vin says, taking the reins of both their horses.

“Glad to,” Virgil says to Chris. “Vin told us a little about you. Said that you were trustworthy, and that you’d probably help us.”

“Did he?” Chris glances at Vin, who does not meet his eyes because he is busy leading the horses into the corral.

The kitchen is a large room that also serves as a parlour; two doors at one end lead to two bedrooms. The floor sags a little, but a couple of armchairs, a few flowerpots and a little Mexican rug on a wall add colour and cheer. On another wall, hanging from two nails, there’s an old Henry repeater rifle. Chris frowns at it. “So, Miss Henderson.”

“Esther,” she smiles. “We’ve talked about it with Vin and Emilio, the other ranch hand. No Miss Henderson, no Mister Martinez, no Mister Staberg.”

Chris blinks, then sees a faint flush rise to Vin’s neck and holds his peace. He pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket, lights it, puffs on it to get it going.

“We moved here two months ago, after Mister Henderson … our father … died,” Virgil starts, picking up a flapjack, but not biting into it. 

“He was from Mississippi, had a cotton plantation,” Esther clarifies. “He won this place in a poker game with a visitor from New Mexico. And he left it to us, in his will.”

Chris grew up in Louisiana, he does not need to ask any questions about their mother. He takes a long pull on his cigar. “Go on.”

“We were born during the war,” Esther says, frowning in the effort to choose the most relevant facts. “I was born in ’62, Virgil in ’65, before Appomattox. Just before all slaves,” she lowers her voice on the last word, looking down, “had to be freed. Mister Henderson took care of us, even after that.”

“He didn’t send us away,” Virgil adds. “He asked us to work for wages in the plantation, what was left of it. Esther in the kitchen, me in the stables. He paid us with what little money he had left.”

“His children hated that. His _lawful_ children,” Esther says bitterly. “And when he died, they inherited the plantation, and it wasn’t enough for them. They want this place as well. They wrote that they’ll come and take their rightful legacy from us.”

“Why?”

“There are rumours, they must have heard them. That the railway will keep growin, that Lordsburg will become a place where money will flow. Mister Henderson made sure we knew letters and numbers,” Esther’s voice breaks a little, “but we don’t know a thing about the law and business. We know only one thing,” her soft voice becomes colder with determination, “we are _not_ goin to give in.”

“Hell no,” Virgil snaps. For a moment Chris sees Chico sitting at the table instead of this youth. Chico, who didn’t give in either, and who now has a home, a girl, a future.

“These other children,” he asks. “How many are there? And where are they now?”

“Two half-brothers,” Virgil spits out. “We got this letter last week.” He strides to the sideboard, takes a piece of paper from a drawer and hands it to Chris, who quickly scans it.

“These threats. Think they mean them?”

“We don’t know. We spoke to the sheriff. He promised that he’ll do what he can to protect us, but he only has one deputy, and they’re busy mindin the town.”

“I have good news and bad news,” a voice says from the porch, and booted feet go up the steps. Another young man walks in: Mexican, in his late twenties, tall and well-built, with a moustache and a direct gaze. “The good news: I spoke to Mister O’Leary. I can take Blanca to his bull tomorrow. The bad news: it will cost you five dollars, I was not able to talk him down.” He nods to Vin, then sees Chris and stops. 

“He’s Emilio Martinez, he works with us,” Esther explains, her face softening. Vin grins, elder-brotherly rather than – as he was at first with Chico and Petra – competitive.

“I must go,” Chris says. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.” He looks at Vin, then at Emilio, and slightly jerks his chin towards the corral. Vin falls into step with him; Emilio strides ahead, then wheels around, facing them.

He doesn’t waste words. “I heard something about you, Adams. And you know about me, _verdad_?”

Chris narrows his eyes. “Heard something about you too. There’s a reward, across the river.”

Emilio is not fazed. “Yes, there is. Some friends and I … used to find cattle. Before they got lost. But here there is no reward.” He pauses. “And now I, you and Vin are on the same side. _Their_ side." He jerks his thumb backwards, in the direction of the house. "That is good.” He turns and walks back to the house.

Vin laughs, turns to Chris and raises his right hand, showing three fingers. Chris shakes his head: “Mister Staberg, you forgot that we can’t afford to care.”

Vin’s face turns serious. “I told those kids what my name was. And what I was. Before they hired me. They trust me. And I like bein with ‘em.”

For a moment there is ice in Chris’s guts as all the years of working on his own flash through his mind, back in Texas, further back in Dodge, still further back in Louisiana, _trust_ a rarely-used word, _like_ even less so. He takes a breath. “I got an early start tomorrow, five o’clock stage to Deming. Travelling back the day after.” A moment’s pause. “You having dinner with them tonight?”

Vin thinks it over for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

In town, on their way to the cafè, they stroll past the sheriff’s office. The door is open, and assorted curses in English and Spanish are coming from two of the cells. A block or so further up, a man with a deputy’s star on his vest is trying, quite successfully, to keep two drunken ranch hands from bothering a woman. The sheriff is presumably busy elsewhere with other miscreants. 

“New town,” Vin smirks. Neither says anything else until they are sitting in front of two large bowls filled with chili, beans and chunks of beef.

“My mistake,” Vin says after the first few mouthfuls, “I shoulda explained about the kids before I took you to meet them. But, like I told you back in the village … once you fall into the trap of carin, you’re stuck. And now I’m in this damn trap, and haven’t been able to climb out yet.” He meets Chris’s eyes. “Have you?”

“Pass the bread,” is Chris’s reply. Vin shrugs and complies, his fingertips are blunt, warm. “The half-brothers may or may not turn up,” Chris ponders. Then something else occurs to him. “Could the half-brothers have any legal rights to the ranch?”

Vin shakes his head. “The kids have already shown their father's will to the attorney here on Main Street. He told them it’s all legit. Esther’s the only one who legally owns the property, though: she’s over twenty-one, and Virgil’s eighteen.”

“They’re both in danger, then. She, because she’s the only owner. He, because they won’t let him make it to twenty-one.” Chris wipes his mouth, gets a cigar, lights it and takes a couple of long, pensive puffs. “We need to train them to take care of themselves, just in case.” He ignores the way Vin’s eyes light up at the first word, and they half-smile at each other, remembering the shooting lessons in the Mexican village.

“So now _we_ ’re in the trap, and it’s goin to be trouble. Just like a fella I used to know,” Vin muses, voice flat, face blank, like every time he comes up with a parable about strange, real or imaginary, “fellas”. Chris just makes a small interrogative sound. “He liked dogs. So he got one. Then another. Then a couple more. When he died, nobody could set foot in his place, because there was a pack of more ‘n thirty wild dogs runnin around every which way.”


	4. Before the Hour of the Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for what is to come.

The sky has gone from blue to lavender, and is turning grey when Chris pulls the stagecoach to a halt in front of the Butterfield office. He steps down, rolls his shoulders and stretches his back, watching the passengers as they get out, breathe a sigh of relief and start moving their cramped limbs.

“Another day, another two dollars fifty,” groans Jake, his shotgun guard, breaking his shotgun open and extracting the cartridges. “Three-fifty for you.”

“Any time you want to swap, let me know,” says Chris, pulling his handkerchief out of a back pocket and cleaning some dust off his face. Although two days spent driving two teams of horses have consequences on his back muscles, and although rolling through flat desert is mind-numbingly boring, the last week has not been unpleasant. It’s a welcome change to have a job that does not involve shooting men. And it’s a not unwelcome feeling to wonder what’s been happening back at the Double Four. To know that other people are beginning to matter to him, and that he is beginning to matter to them.

“Got time for a drink?” Jake asks.

Chris shakes his head. “Thanks anyway. See you tomorrow before noon. Good night.” He crosses the road and joins Vin, who is standing by the door of the café, his horse tethered to the hitching rail.

“Mister Staberg,” he says, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“Mister Adams,” Vin grins back.

Tonight’s menu is Irish stew. They tuck in, the silence between them comfortable. Like being at home – the thought flashes through Chris’s mind, too fast to be caught and stifled. He waits for it to completely fade away before speaking. Their plates are almost empty.

“Any news from the other Hendersons?” 

“No. Today we had some more practice shootin. Emilio is always good and fast, no surprises there.”

“As good as you?”

Vin laughs. “I’d hate to bet on the difference.”

“Virgil?”

“More miss than hit. Hits the targets about half the time with a Colt, never with the Henry. But listen, Esther’s more promisin with the rifle, she got eye and coordination.”

Chris looks up sharply. “Esther?”

“Yeah. _It’s my property_ , she said, _I need to defend it_. And you know, she’s right.”

“We’ll see. I’m on the noon stage tomorrow, I’ll drop by early in the morning.”

“Do that.” The words are few and restrained, but Vin’s voice is warm around them. 

  
  


They have set up an old wooden barrel in front of the barn, and Emilio is placing three empty bean cans on top of it. Esther is standing with Vin and Chris, about fifteen yards from the barrel, and she’s holding the Henry repeater.

“First let me see you load it,” Chris instructs.

“Right.” Slowly and carefully, she counts sixteen cartridges and slides them into the breech.

“Good. Now shoot a can.”

She presses the stock against her shoulder – good, Vin must have already told her what will happen if she doesn’t – then points the rifle and aims. The men quickly move away from the barrel. Esther fires, and a few splinters come off the top of the barrel. Esther presses the lever down and ejects the spent cartridge, a grimace of disappointment on her face.

“Hold your breath and squeeze the trigger. Slowly,” Vin says.

She changes her stance slightly, so that she’s standing sideways – very good, Vin must have told her that she must offer the smallest possible target to anyone wanting to shoot her. Arms steady, she aims, breathes in and squeezes the trigger. The can on the right bends, but does not fall. The men inspect it: it’s been nicked. Virgil beams, the other three do not.

Emilio frowns, reflects for a moment, and moves towards Esther. “Listen, _chica_ ,” he says. “Imagine a straight line. It runs from your eye,” and with a gentle fingertip he brushes her right eye, “through the back sights to the front sights,” he touches them, one after the other, “and to the centre of the spot you want to hit. Now try.”

Esther raises the rifle, points it, thinks, and fires. The can on the right falls off the barrel.

“Good,” Chris says shortly. _“La linea de mira_ ,” Emilio says with a proud smile.

"Accurate is good, accurate and fast is better,” Vin adds. “So keep practisin.”

It’s Virgil’s turn. After seeing him fire the Henry half a dozen times, the three men agree that it should be left to Esther. The only other weapon around is an old bone-handled Colt; Virgil’s shooting is haphazard, the few times he knocks off a can seem to be accidents. After a while, he puts the gun down, silently shaking his head.

Chris pushes his hat back. “Have you ever pointed a gun at a man?”

The boy’s face darkens. “Once. But I didn’t shoot. Last year. In the plantation. Someone …” he looks up, his whole body tensing, his eyes haunted, “our brother Thomas was trying to force Esther.”

“What happened?”

“He didn't have a gun. He ran.” He lowers his voice. “Our father did not believe us.” His mouth twists a little, and his eyes begin to blur. “I wish I could shoot better. But I’m only good at throwin knives.”

“How come?”

“There was this man, old Uncle Amos.” Virgil’s body relaxes a little. “He stayed on in the plantation after the war, he’d worked there his whole life, had nowhere to go. He had this old huntin switchblade, and he taught me.” His hand slides, almost involuntarily, down his side, closing around a remembered knife handle. “Don’t know why, I just used to hit whatever I was aimin at. Leaves, sticks. Mice.”

Chris takes a deep breath, sticks his hand into a pocket, and produces Britt’s knife. “Try with this one.” He leads Virgil to a spot about ten yards from one of the corral’s posts. “Try to hit that.”

Virgil nods silently, stands with slightly bent knees, presses the release button and in one easy motion swings his upper body around and throws the knife. The point embeds itself, wobbling a little, into the post.

Chris sees the bodies lying in the square of the Mexican village, and the knife stuck into the low wall, and Britt face-down in the dust. Alone, as he had lived. As each of them had lived. He slowly walks up to the corral, frees the knife, closes it and hands it to Virgil. “This belonged to a friend. Take care of it.”

Virgil blinks a couple of times. “I will.” 

Emilio ambles up to him: “So there is _one_ thing that you are good at,” he teases, with a light cuff to the back of the boy’s head which turns into a tickle to the curls on the nape of his neck. Virgil blushes and laughs, half moving into the touch and half away from it.

As Chris goes to get his horse, Vin follows him. “I’ll make ‘em both practise until they drop.” He lowers his voice. “Good idea, the knife.”

“With any luck, he’ll never have to use it,” Chris says, mounting up.

“But we know better ‘n that,” Vin says, unsmiling.

  
  


It’s the end of Chris’s second week as a Butterfield driver. The stage rolls down Main Street and comes to a stop, and the four passengers from San Antonio, who got on at Deming, step out, stretch and rub their faces. They’re a minister, a middle-aged couple and a tired-looking fair-haired man in his twenties. They all reach up to grab the bags that Chris and the shotgun guard are handing down.

“Thank you, sir,” the woman says, taking her small carpet bag. “You gave us a good smooth ride, in spite of all the holes and bumps on the road.”

“Glad you and the guard didn’t have much to do on this trip,” her husband adds, with a good-natured laugh. “Everyone is town is talking about last week’s holdup, how brave you and Jake were when you shot it out with those robbers – how many were there, ten, twelve? And say, how’s Jake?”

“Just four,” Chris says. “Jake’s better, he should be back at work in a couple of weeks.” He hides his relief when the couple’s daughter turns up in a buggy, collects her parents and drives off. The minister has walked off with his Lordsburg colleague. The last passenger is standing by the stage, holding his beautiful old leather bag with the silver initials S.H. near the handle. He looks around, spots the hotel, sighs in relief and turns towards Chris.

“Sir, I’d be obliged if you could tell me how I could get to the Double Four Ranch.”

Chris hears Lee’s long vowels and Southern lilt, and makes sure his face shows only polite helpfulness. He looks towards the café, sees Vin leaning on the doorframe, and imperceptibly shakes his head. Vin nods and steps into the cafè. “About six miles south-east from here. You planning on getting there tonight?”

“No, just askin, I’m too worn out to go anywhere tonight. I’ll wait until my brother arrives, in a day or two.”

“Right. Good night.” Chris drives the stage into the stable, collects his jacket and rifle, and walks into the office. The manager is still around, waiting for the driver to sign off.

“I need a few days off. Something urgent’s just come up,” Chris says.

“Sorry, Adams. We can’t spare you. You’re the best driver we got, and we’re already short-handed with Jake’s shoulder wound.”

“Fine. I quit. Just give me whatever I’ve still got coming after the advance you gave me on the first day.”

“Wait. Just wait. Like I said, you’re our best driver. And the whole town’s grateful to you for last week – saving Jake and the passengers, not to mention the coach. Tell you what – I’ll ask Ben Hughes if he can take over for a week or so. But no more ‘n that.”

  
  


“Tall, fair-haired, Emilio’s age? That’s our other half-brother, Stephen.” Esther hands each of them a plate of vegetable stew, with a few pieces of chicken lying on top of it. Her movements are controlled, but her hands are shaking and her eyes are wide. “Did he say Thomas was coming tomorrow?”

“Soon,” Vin says, between mouthfuls. “And Thomas probably won’t be alone. Tomorrow mornin I’ll take you to talk to the sheriff.”

“And we’ll be here. Getting ready,” Chris says quietly.

“What if there’s a dozen of them?” Virgil is almost managing to keep his voice steady.

Chris gives him a reassuring half-smile: “Vin and I,” he glances at Vin, “faced worse odds not long ago. And we have surprise on our side. They’re not expecting the two of you to fight back.”

“And to have help,” Emilio adds, one hand on Virgil’s shoulder, the other on Esther’s forearm.

“You goin back to town for the night?” Vin asks Chris.

“Better not. If the ranch owners don’t have anything against it,” Esther and Virgil shake their heads, smiling, “there are four bunks in the bunkhouse, I’ll take one of the empty ones.”

Chris and Vin stroll past the corral, check on their horses and keep walking around the ranch buildings, giving themselves a few minutes to talk freely.

“How many do you think Thomas will bring along?” Vin asks, straight to the point.

Chris takes out a cigar and lights it, turning it in the match flame to get it going evenly. “Less than a dozen, I guess. He’s probably sure that he can just scare the kids off.” He mentally shakes his head at himself for saying _the kids_ , just like Vin. “Emilio must stay in the house with them at all times. Esther can shoot straight, but she may lose her nerve.”

Vin looks ahead into the night sky, remembering. “Petra and the other women from the village. We didn’t give them any guns, yet when the time came, they got out and fought. With hoes, shovels, sticks. Because they were fightin for their homes and families.” _Unlike us_ remains unspoken, yet it’s there, cold and heavy, in the air between them.

Chris ignores the digression and the unspoken words. “I’ll be outside, to receive them. You?”

“Up on a roof,” Vin says. There’s a long moment of silence. Vin takes his hat off and turns it around in his hands, then says slowly, “In two or three days, you or I may die. Maybe both of us. And there’s somethin I gotta say to you. Can you keep quiet and listen?”

Chris takes in some smoke, blows it out and watches it dissolve in the air. “Sure.”


	5. Death Will Ride a Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a few days, people may die. Some decisions are necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some emotional investment in this chapter. Hope it works for you. Please let me know if it doesn't.

“That night,” Vin says, and his eyes are cool, almost grey, “When I left. At first I was sore. Because you said no. Because you didn’t want what I wanted. Because to me, it meant somethin.” He pauses. Chris smokes in silence. “It’s a long ride to Lordsburg. I had time to think things over. And I made up my mind that what I wanted most was to keep ridin with you. Workin with you, whatever we can find.” He pauses again, puts his hat back on, pulls at the ends of the bandana around his neck. “Friends. Brothers. Doin no other business, if that’s your taste.” He stops, shrugs. “That’s my piece said.” He starts turning towards the bunkhouse.

“Wait,” Chris says. “My turn.” He looks straight at Vin. “You afraid of dying?”

Vin frowns, then nods. “Yeah, I am. Every time. Then I stop thinkin about it and just do what I’m there to do.” A beat. “Why’re you askin?”

Chris takes a last puff of his cigar, drops the butt and grinds it into the soil with the tip of his boot. “Usually I don’t think about it. Tonight’s different. Like you said, we may not be around in a couple of days.” He takes a breath. “That night. I knew I had nothing to give you. That’s still true. But now, there’s no time to fret about giving and taking.” His weariness is still there, along with painful memories and cold acknowledgements of failures; they will be weighing him down for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be, but the small warm point is still glowing somewhere inside him, and that matters. “If the option you gave me is still open, I’d like to take it.”

Vin looks at him, unsmiling. “Knew a fella once. Kept sayin he couldn’t swim. Until a friend pushed him into a waterhole. He swam like a fish.”

“Smartass,” Chris says, and takes two steps forward, reaches out and cups Vin’s cheek, rough and bristled, one deep dimple forming under his thumb. His body is beginning to stir, his cock to fill and rise; right now, this is something welcome, something he _wants_. 

A new thought ambushes him. “Damn. We can’t ride back to town, and Emilio’s in the bunkhouse.”

Vin laughs. “There are always options.” He grabs Chris’s wrist and gently pulls him towards the barn. He closes and bolts the door: “We got time,” and he smiles, cheerful, unguarded.

It’s dark, only a little moonlight filters through the chinks in the door and the shutters. The smell of hay is everywhere, mixed with the smell of apples drying on a shelf. Chris unbuckles his gunbelt and places it on the shelf; Vin mirrors his actions, one after the other, then steps up to Chris and starts unbuttoning his shirt, looking down and then frowning as his fingers encounter a raised ridge between two ribs. “Knife,” he states, knowledgeably.

“New Orleans,” Chris says. “Twenty years ago.” He owes Vin this much. The rest of the memory he shoves back. Now is not the time. They’ll talk about it one day, maybe.

Vin bends a little and gives the scar a lick, and small shivers start running down Chris’s spine. Vin undoes a couple more buttons – his fingertips are calloused, gentle – and stops again, touching a small puckered cavity high on Chris’s left hip: “Handgun.”

“Dodge. Last year. Crooked bank manager who couldn’t shoot straight.” He pauses. “Lost another friend that day.”

Vin caresses around the scar and kisses it before unbuckling Chris’s belt and dropping it on the ground. His breath catches as he slides a hand against Chris’s stomach, undoes trousers and underwear, frees Chris’s cock and gazes at it. He looks up, straight into Chris’s eyes, and slowly kneels.

Chris’s legs are shaking. _I’m not sure I can do this_ , he would like to say, and _I haven’t washed_ , and _I want you_. All he is able to do is take one dizzy step back, lean against the barn door and nod once.

Vin reaches over and cups Chris’s balls, just holding them, fingertips barely brushing them. Then he pauses for a second, breathes deeply, and takes Chris into his mouth.

At first Chris is too dazed to do anything. Vin is lightly holding on to his thighs, steadying both of them, and is doing mischievous, teasing things with tongue and teeth along his whole length, and all Chris can do is lean back, shut his eyes tight, and let waves of pleasure chase one another through his body.

Vin draws off and breathes in. Chris opens his eyes, looks at him and leans forward to run a hand through his hair – short and sweaty and spiky, boyish. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Vin looks up at him and says, voice low and raspy, “Tell me.”

Yes. There _is_ something Chris wants, something he doesn’t want to lose. For a moment a few faces and bodies race through his mind – the other times he has done this with men, brief releases quickly given and quickly forgotten. He sends all the memories back to wherever they came from – this is something else, this is between him and someone who knows him well, someone who wants to keep riding with him, this is like turning that hearse around and racing down Boot Hill at breakneck speed, side by side.

“Yes. I want you.”

Vin smiles and takes him back into his mouth, and Chris rests his hand on Vin’s shoulder and starts thrusting, taking, taking, and Vin isn’t coughing or choking, he’s sucking with all his strength, as easy with this as he is with everything else he does. Chris thrusts again, and again, and his hand clenches on Vin’s shoulder, and he tenses and jerks and spurts, and it’s long, and silent, and happy.

Chris looks down, still reeling. Vin has swallowed some and spat some, and now he’s wiping his mouth and licking a couple of fingers and saying nothing, stretching his shoulders, face splitting into a grin. Chris tucks himself away and briskly pulls Vin up, energy and determination rushing through his veins. 

“Good swimmer,” Vin whispers smugly.

“Smartass,” Chris says, and takes his face into his hands and kisses him. This is new, he’s never done it before with a man, and it’s gentle and playful; tasting himself on Vin’s tongue and lips is both embarrassing and enjoyable. They laugh into each other’s mouths, and Chris laughs inwardly at himself as well, at how long he waited before he discovered that _doin business_ can be fun. Tender.

Then they kiss faster and harder, and they moan into each other’s mouths, and Vin is rock-hard against Chris’s body. Chris steps back, drags his thumb across Vin’s bruised mouth, and says, “ _You_ tell me.”

“I want you. I’ve wanted you for weeks,” Vin says, straightforward, easy.

“You got me,” Chris says, and that’s easy to say too. He fumbles a little with Vin’s belt buckle and buttons, and fumbles a little more as he shoves Vin’s pants and underwear down his thighs. With a finger he traces the pink scar on Vin’s right thigh, part of their history together, and moves down into Vin’s soft blond bush, not yet touching the thick erect cock pointing towards him.

“Come on,” Vin gasps, and Chris spits in his hand, inelegant but necessary, wraps his fingers around Vin and looks up, sees anticipation and hope in his face, and smiles. He tightens his hold, and they’re moving together, there’s a rhythm between the movements of his fist and Vin’s strong thrusts inside it - the same perfect, silent understanding that was there on the seat of the hearse, and on the rides they took to find men, and when they were standing side by side when Calvera first rode into the village.

So good, and too short: after a few moments Vin thrusts hard a few times, then pants, jolts and bursts with a long, blissful sigh.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Chris says quietly. They walk out, go to the well, and wash themselves as best they can with their bandanas, stopping every few moments to look at each other and grin a little, as if they had done this for the first time ever, and yes, that’s how it feels, foolish as it may be. Whatever happens tomorrow or the day after, they’ve had this. And now each of them has something to stay alive for, tomorrow and the days after that.

They go into the bunkhouse, lie on their bunks and close their eyes. They fall asleep with the sounds of Emilio’s light, peaceful snoring.

  
  


The next day, it’s nearly noon when Vin and Esther ride back from town, alone. “Sheriff was away,” Vin says, dismounting. “He had to round up a posse, some rustlers hit the YB, killed the owner and two hands, and took all the cattle.”

“His wife told us, she was in the office,” Esther says, beginning to unsaddle her horse. “She promised she’ll let us know the moment anyone else turns up askin for the Double Four.”

“That’s all we can do, then, wait.” Virgil opens his hands a little. “Come in and have somethin to eat, we boiled eggs and made coffee.”

The day passes slowly, uneventfully: they share the chores, check the weapons, make sure everyone knows their posts when the time comes. It’s getting dark and they are washing up after dinner, discussing turns for night watch, when they hear a horse galloping hell-for-leather towards the cabin. It’s a lathered mare, and a middle-aged woman is on it, astride, skirts askew, greying hair flying in all directions, but perfectly in control.

She pulls up beside the well and jumps off, nimbly if not gracefully. “Two men just rode into town asking for you,” she says abruptly the moment she sees Esther and Virgil come out of the house. “And the young man who’s staying at the hotel went to join them, and some more strangers’ve been turning up one or two at a time throughout the day, and now there’s nine of them all together.” She runs the back of her hand across her forehead. “I haven’t had word from my husband yet, but you two are more than welcome …” She stops as she sees Chris, Vin and Emilio walk out to stand beside the Hendersons. “Oh. Well.” She looks all three men over, assessing them. “Wish Bill was here to deputise you, but now I feel a little reassured.”

“Please rest a while, have some coffee before you ride back,” Esther waves her in. “Virgil can take care of your horse.”

“Paul Revere’s got nothin on you, ma’am,” Vin beams at her while holding the door open. “You’d whip his … butt any time in a race.”

“Thanks, I s’pose,” she says wryly. “I won’t stay long. Got to keep a light burning in Bill’s office.” She lowers her voice, and for a moment lets them see the trepidation on her lined face. “I’ll pray for him and his boys. And for you.”

  
  


Vin and Emilio are on night watch. Emilio goes off to get his rifle and holster, Esther goes to her bedroom. 

“I’ll bunk here in the kitchen,” says Virgil. 

“Likewise,” says Chris. Then he turns around and splays a hand on Vin’s chest. “Watch yourself.” 

Vin does not smile or make a wisecrack. “You too.”


	6. To Defend a Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shootout and its aftermath.

It’s almost dawn, but it’s still dark. Esther’s in her bedroom, Chris and Virgil are dozing in the two armchairs. The night has been quiet, but the tension is almost tangible.

A horse in the corral snorts loudly. Chris and Virgil sit up and hear footsteps and hoofbeats, muffled in the dust, and at the same time they hear Vin’s voice from the roof of the bunkhouse, coolly conversational: “Good mornin.” And then Vin adds, fast and loud: “They’re spreadin out. Four at the front, five at the back.”

Noises from Esther’s bedroom tell them that she’s awake and alert. Chris tells Virgil to cover him and steps out onto the porch, to face the two men sitting on their horses in front of the door: Stephen Henderson and an older version of him, tall, blond and stern-looking, a rifle in the saddle scabbard, a Colt sitting comfortably on his hip.

“The stagecoach driver,” Stephen Henderson says, his eyes widening a little as he sees Chris. “What …?”

“What do you want?” Chris cuts in. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that a man in a grey poncho is going around the corral and taking cover behind the well. Another, in a yellow shirt, is going towards the barn. The man in the poncho aims a rifle towards the roof, and Vin’s rifle blasts a reply to the challenge.

“Our place,” replies Thomas Henderson, short and ice-cold. Then he raises his voice, so that it carries into the house. “We’re settling this now. There’s nine of us, you’re outnumbered. You two mulatto bastards, you have half an hour to pack your things.”

“We’re not going. It’s not your place.” Virgil has appeared behind Chris, wearing a holster with the old bone-handled Colt, and is speaking calmly, although Chris sees that his legs are shaking. “There’s a lawyer in town, his name’s Rudd. He’ll show you Mr Henderson’s … our father’s … will and the deed to this property.”

Stephen Henderson clears his throat and speaks without addressing anyone in particular. “We might go see this lawyer and work out some sort of compromise. Maybe a financial compensation.”

“Shut up, idiot,” his brother says without even looking at him, and at the same time Virgil says flatly, “No. And Esther agrees with me. This is our home.”

“The hell it is,” Thomas spits. “You forget what you are. A slave, bred for work. Like your sister, a slave bred for work and pleasure, like your mother was.”

“Slavery is gone,” Stephen says. “For ever. Thomas, think again. Let’s all sit down at a table, without weapons.”

“Shut up,” Thomas repeats. “Let me deal with these niggers.”

“I should’ve killed you that day,” Virgil mutters, fumbling with his holster. Thomas snorts, and his right hand moves down, reaching for his sidearm. Chris acts by instinct more than reason: he leaps in front of Virgil and shoves him sideways with all his strength, then in one movement drops into a crouch, draws, and snaps a shot in Thomas’s direction. Searing heat runs along his right cheek and the side of his neck, and through pain-blurred eyes he sees Thomas list sideways, a stain spreading down his left side. Chris swears, wipes off the blood dripping into the collar of his shirt, and sees Stephen helping Thomas stay on his horse. Both horses disappear towards the back of the house, and Virgil sprints off after them.

“Chris! You all right?” Vin shouts, and his rifle blasts again, twice, and the man in the poncho goes down, sprawling in the dust.

“I’m fine,” Chris shouts back, pulling a bandana out of his pocket and pressing it against his cheek; it’s a flesh wound, it can wait. The man in the yellow shirt peeks out from behind the barn: he’s holding a flaming tree branch. Chris aims and fires: the man doubles over and drops the branch, which smoulders on the ground and goes out.

From the back of the house come different sounds, all close together and blending into one another: shuffling, rustling, a rifle cracking, a howl of pain, another rifle shot, several pistol shots, and bodies crashing to the ground. Then one last pistol shot, and silence, broken by Emilio’s holler: “Two down.”

“Four,” shouts back Vin, sliding down from the roof and heading for the back of the house. From Esther’s bedroom there’s the noise of glass shattering, a rifle shot, a pistol shot, and a woman’s scream.

“Esther!” Chris dashes through the house, gun in hand. Nobody in the kitchen. In Esther’s room, the windowpane is broken and through the window they can see three bodies, two some distance away, and the third, a heavy-set Mexican, lying in a heap just outside the house. Emilio is bending over Esther, who is sobbing unrestrainedly and losing blood from her left arm.

“Where’s Virgil?” she gasps.

Chris asks himself the same question, his guts twisting as he hears more gunfire at the front. He leaves Emilio to tend to the girl and runs out the back door and into the kitchen garden. Two horses are grazing on the vegetables, a few chickens are scratching about in the grass. Stephen Henderson is on his knees, weeping. Thomas is lying on his side in what’s left of the tomato patch, a dried trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, Britt’s knife sticking out of his chest. Virgil is leaning against a tree, dazed, face pale, body shaking and swaying.

Emilio steps into the garden, goes towards Virgil and puts firm hands on his shoulders. “What happened?”

The young man doesn’t answer, his wild eyes keep shifting between Emilio and Thomas’s body. Stephen gets up and faces them, voice breaking.

“Virgil ran after us. He was shouting, _Go away, Leave us alone_. And Thomas … he was wounded … still, he turned and …and Virgil … he just …”

“Listen,” Emilio says softly, the back of his fingers stroking Virgil’s cheeks. “ _Querido_. You had no choice. None. And you don’t need to use that knife again. Or hurt anyone else.”

Virgil squares his shoulders and nods a couple of times, breathing deeply. The shock in his eyes gradually gives way to sombre acceptance. “Thanks,” he says, and in the word there’s a blend of darkness, greyness and light. “But I would use it again. To defend this place. And Esther. And you.” The last word is whispered, barely audible.

They leave Stephen to mourn Thomas and walk back to the bedroom. Esther is sitting on the floor, weeping more softly and stroking her roughly-bandaged arm.

“ _Esa chica_ ,” Emilio says, shaking his head. “My gun was empty, and I was reloading, my back to the window. That man,” and he jerks his thumb towards the body lying under the window, “he breaks the window, and is about to shoot me in the back, and she doesn’t scream, doesn’t run, she just shoots him _a quemarropa_ , point blank. And before he falls, he shoots back, and hits her.” He takes Esther’s hands and softly kisses both palms. “ _Querida_ , you saved my life.”

“Your life matters to me,” she says quietly, stroking his cheek with her uninjured hand.

Through the broken windowpane, they see two other men – one lanky and red-haired, the other a little older than Virgil, with a fancy embossed gunbelt – walk slowly towards the house with their hands up. Vin is close behind them, rifle levelled at their backs.

Chris and Virgil step out and meet them. “Found ‘em hidin in the bunkhouse,” Vin says shortly.

“It’s over,” Chris says. “Thomas Henderson is dead. Stephen Henderson doesn’t want to fight any more. You two got no stake in this. Leave your guns here and get lost, before the sheriff gets here.”

“And take your friends with you,” Vin adds.

  
  


Chris, Vin, Emilio and Virgil stand close together and watch the two men they have spared ride away, the bodies of their comrades tied across their saddles. Stephen is about to mount up and take Thomas’s body away with him.

He meets their eyes. “There’s nothing I can say except I’m sorry.” His mouth twists a little. “I knew what he was like. Yet I followed him out of loyalty, he was all I had left.” He starts moving the horses towards the road, and half-turns towards them. “You won’t hear from me again.” He rides off, shoulders bowed.

Vin takes a deep breath, then grabs his saddle and heads for the corral: “Doctor for you and Esther,” he says to Chris’s interrogative look. But as he is saddling his horse, the sheriff arrives, with three exhausted-looking men wearing stars and a youngish man wearing a suit and carrying a small bulging bag.

“My wife said there probably wouldn’t be much left for us to do. I thought I’d bring Doctor Kaplan along, just in case.” He stands and watches while Chris is given a couple of stiff drinks and then stitched up: “The way you dealt with those stage robbers last week. Not hard to figure out that you ain’t always been a rig driver.” He looks across the room to Vin: “And you’re the new hand here. And a friend of his.”

“That’s right,” Vin says.

The sheriff takes a pipe out of his pocket and fills it. “You fought off attackers. Can’t say I’m happy about you deciding to let anyone left alive go off.” He takes a test draw on the pipe. “But I’m not heartbroken about not having to keep ‘em in my jail until the district judge turns up. I’m willing to forget about all of this.” The three of them exchange looks of agreement, and the sheriff huffs out a little breath.

“Done,” says the doctor, washing his hands. He has a foreign accent, not Spanish. “There will be a faint scar. The ladies will still find you handsome.” Chris thanks him with a small nod, carefully not looking at Vin, who is tightening the buckle of his gunbelt, head down to hide a smirk.

“Now the young lady.” Esther shakes her head at the whisky bottle; the doctor smiles, agrees that women should not indulge in liquor, and gives her a large dose of laudanum instead. “Don’t use that arm for at least a week,” he instructs when he’s finished.

“Up to you men to do the cookin and the cleanin,” she says, sternly if drowsily.

The sheriff’s pipe has gone out. He takes his time relighting it, and then looks at Emilio: “Martinez. You didn’t give a false name when you started working for these two young people. And you stood by them when they needed you.” He takes a long puff. “As long as you behave, if I’m ever asked any questions from across the river, I haven’t seen you or heard of you.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Virgil says, and his voice is calm, a man’s voice. Emilio rests a hand on his shoulder and says seriously, “You and Esther won’t get rid of me that easy.”

“We want to make Lordsburg our home,” Esther says, slurring her words. “Hope that Lordsburg will let us.”

Doctor Kaplan pours himself a small drink. “I was born in Poland, and my people were not welcome there,” he says quietly. “Lordsburg is my home now, Miss Henderson.” He sighs a little. “It may take you a while longer than it took me. But we can look ahead.” He lifts his glass: “ _L’Chaim_. To life.”

  
  


House and grounds have been more or less cleaned up. Esther is in bed, Virgil is in the corral, by himself. Chris, Vin and Emilio are half-heartedly playing poker before Chris goes back to town.

Vin gives one disgusted look at his cards and pushes them away: “I’m out.” He looks at Emilio: “Hard days ahead, friend. Cookin and cleanin. Garden to be dug up, vegetables to be replanted. Windows to be fixed. And the cattle, all eight of them, are scattered somewhere between here and Santa Fe.”

Emilio throws a quarter into the pot. “I’m still in.” He laughs briefly. “In more ways than one. My career as a rustler is over. What I’ve learned about cattle will come in handy in my new career as a ranch foreman.” He sees the way the others look at him and smiles, a little defiantly. “My intentions are honourable. Towards both of them.”

Chris narrows his eyes at him. “Both?”

“Yes. I love them equally. I’ll be happy with whoever will have me.” 

Vin claps him lightly on the shoulder. “See what _they_ got to say about it. And if both of ‘em will have you, good luck to all three.”

Chris looks at his cards. Full house, queens over sixes. But he’s not really interested in playing. He pushes them face down into the discards: “Fold.”

“ _Gracias_.” Emilio pockets the pot, three dollars at the most, and gets up. “I’ll go and see how they both are, and then I’ll turn in.” 

As Chris stands up, Vin is at his side, frowning. “Hey,” he says with some authority. “I want to know how long you’re goin to rest before you start bouncin up and down on that stage.”

“Till tomorrow afternoon. Four o’ clock stage. No arguments, it’s a flesh wound.” A beat. “You could come and sit by my sick bed tonight, though. Ride back here early tomorrow morning. Your call.”

“I just might,” Vin says casually. “Seein as you’re an injured man, I might even take care of you. Gently.”

  
  


Pink-tinged dawn light filters through the dirty net curtains. Chris opens his eyes and stretches, carefully so as not to wake his companion. He smells dust, sweat, sex and unwashed bodies, and hears deep, regular breathing from the warm body next to his. He turns, sits up, and finds himself being studied by wide-open blue eyes.

“Mornin.” Vin stretches, yawns, and slides a hand up and down Chris’s arm. “Reckon we’re gettin better at this,” he says, tickling the underside of Chris’s wrist.

“This _business_?” Chris mocks, running a hand through the hair on Vin’s chest and slowly moving down to his navel and the line of hair leading to his groin.

“Yeah. But not only that.” He gazes at Chris, and maybe also at some other shadows that may be around the two of them. “This time we didn’t lose. The kids are safe. And so are we.”

Chris nods, his mind leaping back to the last morning in the village. _You are like the wind, blowing over the land and passing on._ He closes his eyes for a second. _Maybe not this time, old man. If we’re lucky._ He opens his eyes, slides his hand over Vin’s backside and lightly slaps it. “Come on. Time to get ready for work.” He gets out of bed, goes to the dresser, pours water into the washbowl and starts running a soaped-up corner of the towel over his face and neck, carefully avoiding his freshly-stitched wound.

Vin gets up and, while waiting for his turn at the washbowl, wets a finger and runs it up and down Chris’s spine, all the way to the top of the crease between Chris’s buttocks. “I could get used to this,” he mutters, as he gets hold of the towel, turns Chris around and runs the cloth between his legs. Chris is not sure what exactly Vin means by _this_ , but with a small wry grimace acknowledges to himself that, whatever _this_ is, he could get used to it too.

They part company after a quick breakfast, Vin to ride back to the Double Four, Chris to walk to the Butterfield office and let them know that he’ll be ready for the four o’clock stage after the doctor has had a look at his face.

He walks slowly, reflecting. His wound smarts a little, but he’s feeling rested, ready for the day’s work, and looking forward to coming back to town in a couple of days. And to staying around in Lordsburg, for a few weeks at least.

_Places you are tied to; none, yet, but that may change. People with a hold on you: one. Three, counting the Henderson kids; maybe four, counting Emilio. People you step aside for: Hilario, the old man, and maybe a dozen others back in the village. The sheriff and his wife. The doctor._

He half-smiles to himself. _So far, so good._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Früher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609373) by [Sindarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindarina/pseuds/Sindarina)




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